-

It was little past eleven in the evening when Flatwell flopped face down onto his bed, utterly exhausted from yet another mentally draining day.

He was actually doing the job he was hired to do - that being, test piloting Nachtreiher for the upcoming weapons expo - but with such a time crunch on their schedule he was being spedrun through every single test scenario they could think of, and well-experienced in AC piloting or not...

...it was exhausting! Diabolically so! Not because they were making him do anything truly complicated or strenuous, but because everything was so tedious! Boost jump exactly one hundred metres, oh hmm, the left leg didn't compensate the landing adequetely, pause for adjustments, okay, do the jump again, alright, do it again a hundred more times for more accurate data-

Flatwell groaned at the mind-numblingly boring memories and rolled onto his side. It was back to the grind tomorrow, but for now... for now he can close his eyes and simply forget about piloting... just close his eyes and sleep...

RING! RING!

...he was going to blow up this planet.

Peeling himself off the bed, Flatwell grumpily snatched up his phone from where he'd tossed it onto his bedside table. There was only one person who called him, so he didn't bother looking at the caller ID as he answered and snarled: "what."

"Hello to you too, dove," O'Keeffe's bland tone replied, utterly unruffled by Flatwell's murderous vibes being telepathically sent down the phone line. "Guess you're not ready yet."

Flatwell closed his eyes, resigned.

"Ready for what?" he asked dully.

"The Arquebus dinner party shindig whatever. Got a plus one so I sent a taxi to your place. Should be outside soon."

Flatwell briefly entertained a very detailed daydream where he dropkicked O'Keeffe in the face and down a flight of stairs. He thought he'd be immune to O'Keeffe springing these random and inconvenient events on him out of nowhere by now, but no. It was as soul-destroying as the last, with Flatwell needing to grit his teeth and remind himself its for Rubicon to prevent himself from publicly strangling Arquesbus's head of intelligence in broad daylight and getting himself thrown into a gulag somewhere.

"O'Keeffe," Flatwell said, "it's almost midnight."

"Yeah, it's only for a few hours. You should be back before work starts, I think."

"I'm going to poison you."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Oh right, it's black-tie fancy, but wear whatever. I'll say you're a paid escort or something."

"Arsenic maybe," Flatwell mused, as he got off the bed properly and went to his closet. "Rat poison in that sludge you call coffee could only improve the flavour."

"I'm always open to trying new things."

"Actually, I've decided on laxatives," Flatwell said. He flung open his closet and picked out the first fancy looking thing he owned - a very simple suit that had been worn exactly twice in its lifetime. "I think you deserve to shit yourself in front of everyone."

"Eh, worst things have happened to me. Oh, the taxi's ETA is two minutes. They know where to go. See you soon."

"Die," Flatwell said sweetly and hung up.

-

The Arquebus dinner party shindig whatever was at an extremely fancy hotel that Flatwell, as a low-ranking Schneider employee, could only dream of attending. He despised every inch of its opulant decor, and he let his displeasure be known with his fearsome frown when he approached O'Keeffe waiting for him inside the hotel's entrance hall.

As always, Arquebus's infamous head of intelligence was dressed like a slob: rumpled suit that was buttoned unevenly, a collar folded upwards, his tie askew, and a faint dusting of ash on his lapels from his cigarette. His jaw was thick with dark stubble, and his heavy-lidded eyes conveyed nothing as he nodded at Flatwell's stormy approach.

"Looking gorgeous as always," O'Keeffe said with no emotion. "You wouldn't know you only had two minutes to get ready."

Flatwell smiled at him - all teeth. He wanted to bite him. "Thanks. It's a talent of mine."

O'Keeffe pulled a long drag of his cigarette, eyeing him up and down. His expression didn't change, his eyes maintained that heavy-lidded, apathetic stare - but he still looked. That was more than he did with anyone else, who he barely paid attention to unless he absolutely had to against his will.

Flatwell had no idea if he should be flattered or not that O'Keeffe liked him. It made his work so much easier in Schneider, as O'Keeffe covered for him (bewilderingly, and for reasons Flatwell didn't know or trust), but it also meant Flatwell got dragged into this kind of shit all the time. Kept him on his toes, sure, but he just couldn't catch a break with this guy.

"...right. Let's go meet the vultures," O'Keeffe said, tossing his cigarette down and grinding it into the plush, expensive carpet. "C'mon, dove."

O'Keeffe held out his arm expectantly, and Flatwell took it without protest. They walked arm-in-arm into the dining hall where the party was taking, and Flatwell expertly played the part of paid, professional escort the entire time: all smiles, all manners, and keeping an eye out for tasty, delicious intel and rumours that people let flow carelessly in these kind of settings.

Oh, it was a long night, don't get him wrong. He drank a little too much, ate too little, spoke to too many people he wanted to kill with his own hands, but it was, in its own way useful... and he had O'Keeffe to thank for it, damn him. As always, that man was helping Flatwell out while also being an absolute intriguing menace about it.

He really wouldn't have it any other way. Flatwell despite boredom, and boring dates? They were by far the worst. O'Keeffe was anything but.